


War Orphans

by Meatball42



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Childhood Trauma, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: “War orphans,” the lady says, lipstick instead of sadness curdling at the corners of her down-turned lips, and the foreigners, the English-speakers, coo and pet their heads.The reality is not simple. It's definitely not poetic.
Relationships: Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [copacet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copacet/gifts).



> This story contains more than one character contemplating suicide, references to living in a country during wartime, and the deaths of family members.

War orphans, is what they are called.

It sounds so simple that way, so poetic:

_O, the horrors of war, that leave beautiful, skinny children fatherless, motherless, brotherless, homeless, nationless. O, the timeless tale of human strife._

It doesn’t sound like:

_People running through the streets at night. Pops of light flickering on the walls. The occasional yelp. Frightened whispers that sneak through the windows._

_The world exploding in the middle of dinner. Immense noise everywhere, screaming, being pummeled with rocks and broken pieces of furniture, blind in the dark and smoke, Wanda’s hand in his, somehow._

_Three days._

_Three. Days._

_Wanda’s face, blank, and blank, and blank._

_O, o, o._

“War orphans,” the lady says, lipstick instead of sadness curdling at the corners of her down-turned lips, and the foreigners, the English-speakers, coo and pet their heads.

The reality is not simple. It's definitely not poetic.

\--

The man who adopts them doesn’t squeeze his face like he thinks they’re adorable or pitiful. He stands up straight and stares at Pietro, where he’s standing half in front of Wanda, her hand in his.

The man pulls out a Sokovian-to-English dictionary and then says, terribly, “Protect her you?”

Pietro doesn’t know which way the man meant, but he nods anyway, fiercely, because both are true.

The man sees this, and then speaks in English to the lady, and then they’re going to the USA.

That part is simple, but it’s okay, because that’s the part that doesn’t matter.

\--

Wanda doesn’t talk, and she doesn’t do much of anything through the trip to the USA. She carries things when Pietro tells her to, washes herself and changes clothes and sleeps and eats, and he can tell that she’s there, deep inside. But she’s hiding, and she doesn’t want to come out, and that’s okay, Pietro can do enough for the both of them.

The man is Clint. Clinton Barton, according to his passport, which Pietro had taken gently from his hand. Clint had allowed it, watched him as Pietro flipped through it, noting the countries Clint has been to.

Clint Barton picks up a little Sokovian quickly, and in return Pietro graces him with the American he’s learned through the TV. He looks up words in the Sokovian-to-English dictionary on the plane and tries them out on Clint.

He counts each small, approving smile as a point. He doesn’t know how many they’ll need.

\--

Clint has a farm. A large farm, with animals, and crops. It’s bigger than Clint could manage on his own, and there don’t seem to be other workers. It is January, so perhaps they’re not needed? Pietro doesn’t know how farms work, having always lived in the city, but he wonders whether he and Wanda have been trafficked as farm slaves.

Clint doesn’t put them to work, though. He walks them through the farmhouse, pointing out things that he has to look up in the dictionary to explain. The house is well-furnished, with pictures and silly-looking decorations and clutter and things forgotten in corners. It’s a home.

Wanda lays down when they are introduced to their room. Pietro tugs the dictionary from Clint’s hands.

 _“Jetlag,”_ he says, in probably terrible English.

Clint nods, but he’s not fooled. Pietro doesn’t know how long he’ll let this go.

\--

It goes on for a long time.

Pietro stops counting after three weeks. He helps Clint make food, do laundry, shovel the path around the house, feed the animals. Clint shows him how to use the tractor. In awkward Sokovian, he makes what seems to be a joke about Pietro being old enough to drive it. Pietro doesn’t understand, but he laughs anyway.

Wanda stirs soup when asked, folds clothes, sweeps the floors. She also watches a lot of television, tucked up under two blankets in the corner of the living room sofa.

She doesn’t speak.

Pietro learns more English. Clint has a laptop with a program that he practices at for an hour in the mornings and an hour in the evenings. He can talk to Clint, a little. Clint makes an effort to talk to him about simple things, the house, the animals, to let him practice the strange letters and the way sentences are formed.

Clint touches Pietro sometimes. He pats Pietro on the shoulder when he stops a chicken from escaping the roost. He ruffles Pietro’s hair when Pietro makes him laugh.

Pietro swallows down the urge to vomit at every touch. He smiles wider for the English-speaker. At night, he slips into Wanda’s bed and she curls around him, the only communication they need.

Clint never touches Wanda. He started to, once, and she pulled back and stared at him sharply. He didn’t try again.

\--

A lady comes. She doesn’t have lipstick on, but she has something on her eyes. It’s the same, either way.

Pietro watches closely for cues. He smiles, and when her eyes crinkle, he smiles more. He shows off his rudimentary English, leans into Clint’s side when an arm comes around him.

Wanda sits on the living room sofa under two blankets.

 _“If she’s… with you, maybe… doctor, or…”_ the lady says to Clint, too quickly for Pietro to understand much. He catches the important word, though.

 _“My sister is not sick,”_ Pietro tells her, interrupting Clint. _“She like it here. She is always quiet, before bomb.”_

The lady looks skeptical.

Pietro leans close to Wanda’s ear. “You have to do something,” he tells her, low and quick in Sokovian. “Anything. At least nod along to me.”

He gives her a moment, and when there is no response, he tries to think of what to say.

_“I like. Our new home.”_

Pietro flinches, but turns it into a smile, as though the awful rasp in Wanda’s voice could ever be something to smile about.

 _“See!”_ he cries out, holding his arms open wide. _“She is get better already! So good house, here, home with Clint!”_

The lady liked it, earlier, when he was more animated. She smiles at him again, but the concern has not left her eyes when she looks at Wanda.

He listens in when the lady and Clint talk in the kitchen.

_“They… to be… and clean… parent… come back… month… doctor.”_

He can’t understand most of it, but later Clint says that everything is alright. So… maybe. Maybe this _one thing_ is alright.

Pietro cries into Wanda’s shoulder that night. He doesn’t ask her to speak again.

\--

Pietro doesn’t think about Sokovia.

He doesn’t think about his mother’s cooking, when he helps Clint in the kitchen.

He doesn’t think about the quilt his grandmother made for him when he goes to bed.

He doesn’t think about his father helping him with math when Clint gently corrects his English.

He doesn’t think about playing soccer with his brother when Clint takes him out skating on the pond.

He doesn’t think about playing pranks with his sister when he sees her dead-eyed stare at the television.

\--

Pietro walks on the farm sometimes. At first it’s because it’s good to know the layout of the property. And then it’s because of how strange it is to be outside.

Iowa is not as cold as Sokovia, but the air feels different. And it’s been a long time since Pietro was outside much, anyway, and longer since it wasn’t a scurry from one street to the next, careful to watch the people around him.

On the farm it is so quiet. Away from the barn, out in the fields, the forest, the pond, the trickle of a brook. There are birds calling to each other. There is the wind through the green needles and black branches. And nothing else.

Pietro likes to walk because it is so different, and so cold. He needs the cold, the way it bites at his skin, the way the wind touches him and makes him shiver, makes his breaths hurt, makes his hair get stiff, makes his fingers ache. Sometimes he sits out on a boulder for hours, until he feels like he could close his eyes and die from it.

He doesn’t, though. That would take longer than he has, because Clint will come out and call him if he isn’t back by the time the sun starts to go down.

But sometimes he wishes.

\--

The lady comes back.

Has it been a month already? Pietro is surprised, but when he thinks about the weather, how many rains they’ve had, how many snows, how many warmer days, it makes sense.

He has more to say to her, this time. His English vocabulary is bigger, and he can understand her questions better, so his answers can become more elaborate.

_“Are you sleeping well?”_

_“Not always. Sometimes I have bad dreams. But I have smaller bad dreams now.”_

_“Do you miss your family?”_

_“Yes. But it is good here, also.”_

_“Do you miss school?”_

_“I am on vacation!”_

_“How is Wanda doing?”_

_“She is good. I think the bomb scares her words away. But she listens. She is good.”_

It’s all lies, every word. Even the parts that aren’t lies are made of lies, or twisted. Pietro can’t remember what he’s protecting anymore, but he sure knows what to say to make an adult look the other way. That’s one thing he brought with him from Sokovia.

Clint, though. Clint stares at him, just like he did the first time they met.

\--

_“I’m not angry,”_ Clint says to start.

It’s a good start. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, and the laptop isn’t here, and it’s not a mealtime. Pietro doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

Pietro is curious. But he isn’t afraid. It has been more than two months, and Clint hasn’t done anything to hurt them. That’s proof that Pietro’s work to keep them here hasn’t been in vain.

_“Makenzie wants you to go to school. She wants Wanda to go see a doctor, and a…”_

Pietro taps on the dictionary.

“Psychiatrist,” Clint repeats in Sokovian.

 _“I don’t go without Wanda,”_ Pietro protests.

 _“I know that you don’t want to,”_ Clint soothes. _“But there are rules. I asked for time, and they gave us some time. But we can’t go on like this… not Wanda.”_

Pietro stares at the table and nods.

That night, when he burrows under Wanda’s covers, he tells her what Clint said. What the lady wants. That they don’t have much more time. That he doesn’t want to go anywhere without her, but that he might need to so that they can stay here.

Wanda moves. Pietro thinks maybe he’s on her hair, or he’s making her arm fall asleep, but when he sits up she doesn’t readjust.

She looks him in the eyes.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Your turn.”


	2. Chapter 2

Wanda gets up in the morning. Pietro is still asleep, his face swollen and red and crusty from tears and snot. She pulls the blankets back over him and puts on her robe and slippers.

Clint is already up. Wanda knows he’s an early riser. Sometimes she wakes up when he walks by their door, even though he’s careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. She knows he makes coffee on the stove, just one cup’s worth. She knows he puts cream in it. She’s never seen this for herself, just figured it out from the groceries and the dishes.

She’s never been downstairs when he does it.

He turns around when her footsteps approach.  _ “Good morning,” _ he says, surprised.

_ “Good morning,” _ she answers, and now he’s  _ really _ surprised.

He sputters for a second.  _ “Would you… like breakfast?” _ he asks uncertainly.

Wanda nods.  _ “I like the pancakes you make on Saturdays,” _ she tells him.  _ “Could we have that?” _

It’s a Tuesday, but Wanda knows how adults work, the ones like parents and teachers, at least. The ones who care.

Sure enough, Clint nods instantly.  _ “... Do you want to help make them?” _

“Yes,” she says in Sokovian. Clint knows the word.

Pancakes are not difficult to make, and they make them mostly in silence. Clint clearly doesn’t want to push her, but he does make a few comments about the sunrise and the weather that Wanda can agree with. Clint mixes up batter while Wanda prepares the stovetop and griddle and mixes butter into maple syrup the way she and Clint like.

When the pancakes are down, Wanda eats at the table with Clint. He drinks his coffee and she drinks a big cup of milk. When they finish, she puts her dishes in the sink and prepares a second plate.

She stops, because Clint has a look like he wants to ask, but isn’t sure how.

_ “Twins. We are different, yes?” _ she starts. She planned this last night, in the hour after Pietro fell asleep and she could not.

_ “I need time. And Pietro protect me. And now, Pietro take time. One-at-a-time, yes?” _

Clint’s brow is deeply furrowed.

_ “Is Pietro okay? Wanda, I need to know if he’s alright.” _

_ “We are okay,” _ she says firmly.  _ “We take care. Always. That is family, yes?” _

There’s something in his eyes that makes Wanda think of her grandfather, a long time ago, when they had to move away. It’s there in the way his fingers open and close on empty air, too. It makes Wanda’s eyes burn, but it is not her time to cry, so she does not.

_ “You know. The two of you. You’re my family now, too.” _

Wanda smiles, the way she saw Pietro smile, except with more teeth. Wanda was always the sharper one. 

_ “Yes. You protect us, too, yes?” _

Adults, the good ones, are all the same. And Clint agrees, even though he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to.

Wanda might feel bad, if there were anything but broken glass inside of her.

\--

Wanda learned English in school while Pietro learned German. She has also been watching a lot of children’s TV in English, these last few months. Clint and Makenzie are impressed with her English, when Makenzie comes to see why Pietro won’t get out of bed and why he screams and cries when anyone but Wanda touches him.

_ “It’s okay,” _ she tells them.  _ “He needs to cry. He did not cry before. Because of me. But now, he can cry. Then he will get better, like me.” _

Makenzie watches them both like they have demons inside of them. It’s pretty rude. But Wanda tells her that she wants to take some classes on the laptop. She doesn’t want to go to a real school. She is afraid the other students will bully her, because her English isn’t good. She cries, clings to Clint. Makenzie lets her lets her take the classes on the laptop.

Wanda starts studying American history. She also takes over Pietro’s chores, because he won’t get out of bed.

\--

At night, Wanda climbs into Pietro’s bed. Clint checks on them, so she has to stay in her bed until after he leaves. Pietro is always curled in a ball by then, shaking even though they have warm blankets. The shaking settles down, sometimes, once she’s there with him. Sometimes, it becomes crying, or gets worse. Sometimes, it becomes quiet screaming that he muffles by pressing his face into the pillow.

Wanda lifts the blankets over their heads when he screams, in case that helps to muffle the sound.

He clings to her. He sobs into her chest. His hands press against her, run over her body heavily, like he’s looking for the hole in Mama’s gut, the bones sticking out of Oli. He bites her, sometimes, digs his fingers into her, like he doesn’t really believe she’s there until she stops him from moving through her.

He leaves bruises. She never once thinks badly of him for it.

Pietro never had dreams before, like he was saving them for his turn. He has them now, dreams that wake him up shuddering, calling out for their father or their brother, for help, for someone to drop another bomb and end them. Thankfully, he never speaks English like this. Wanda doesn’t know what Clint would do if he heard that.

Clint never comes to them in the night. Wanda was afraid he would, the first time Pietro’s nosies got bad. But he doesn’t. Wanda doesn’t know why. But he is always extra kind at breakfast the next morning, putting light whipped cream on their hot chocolate, keeping up a soothing patter, even as Pietro drops his silverware and starts crying, even when Wanda’s English falters and they’re left in silence, the three of them at the table in the cold, eating oatmeal and ham.

\--

Pietro liked to go on walks, so Wanda tries it. She doesn’t care much for it. It’s cold, and quiet, and boring. The wind is biting. She has to bundle up in a scarf and a hat and gloves, and at that point, why even bother? But Pietro liked to go out on the farm, so Wanda does, too. Her brother is good at seeing things she doesn’t notice, sometimes.

At least, she learns the layout of the farm. It’s good to know what’s around you, in case you need to escape or barricade. They made sure the students always knew how to escape, back at the schools, back home. They had drills. They had drills in their apartment building, too, drills for fires or when the Special Forces teams would raid an apartment.

The drills didn’t help, in the end. There were no drills for bombs.

Mostly, going outside means Wanda thinks about things differently. Thoughts take a different shape without walls and ceilings to hold them in, without a brother lying down upstairs, without an adoptive parent cutting up planks for floorboards on the back porch.

It’s as cold as home, here, but the air feels different. The sky, though. Long cloud blankets, everywhere. Gray, white, gray, white, shades melting together. It’s oppressive. It’s familiar. It makes Wanda’s chest feel tight. Sometimes she falls to her knees and has to wait for the wheezing to stop, has to cry away the images of Mama’s face, grimacing against the cold as they walked down the street.

Sometimes she wants to walk away. Just keep walking, into the woods, and beyond, and not stop. She would die out there, but at least she would be going somewhere.

But then she would be dying alone, without Pietro’s hand in hers. So she doesn’t.

When Wanda goes out for walks, she comes back inside to Pietro. She gets under the covers and shivers herself back to warmth, and he wraps around her and gives his warmth to her.

\--

The woman comes back. Wanda makes the right noises, smiles, makes coffee for her with Clint to help operate the stovetop, because in America they think children are stupid and will burn themselves.

Maybe American children are stupid. Wanda wouldn’t know.

Wanda tries to listen, but she is tired today. It feels like her stomach is gone, like when she eats, the food just disappears into nowhere she can feel. It feels like that when Makenzie talks. Wanda hears, replies, and then it’s gone. She can’t remember what happened a few seconds later.

That night at dinner, Clint gets Pietro’s attention by tapping on the table in front of his plate. Pietro’s eyes are foggy, when he looks up.

_ “You two are going to start school next week,” _ Clint says, slowly and tenderly.  _ “I know it’ll be a big change.” _

Pietro looks at Wanda. She looks back at him, even though the emptiness in his eyes gives her nausea.

She says something suitable. Clint says something in reply. They finish dinner. They get ready for bed.

That night, wrapped up together, Pietro nudges his head under her chin. Wanda’s head is forced back, her gaze facing the corner of the room where their bed is tucked up, safe. His breath is hot over her collarbones, her throat and her veins and arteries. She wonders if Pietro could bite through her, if he tried.

“I’m not ready,” he whispers, wet onto her skin.

“I’m not ready either.”

He sighs, pushed closer. Wanda’s neck strains, but she only tightens her grip on his back.

“We have to?”

“We have to.”

And that’s that. 


	3. Chapter 3

School is.

Well. It’s awful.

The English, the endless bright lights and colors, the screaming. American children are all so loud. It’s like no one’s ever told them that if they make noise the revolutionaries will be able to find them.

There is math class, maths that Wand and Pietro learned last year, except impossible because of all the English. The teacher thinks they’re stupid, Wanda can tell. She gives them pitying looks.

If they were home. If they were home. Wanda would tell the teacher off for those pitying looks. She would tell her that she and her brother are very smart, and she’d like to see her answer word problems in Sokovian. And she would be sent to the office and Papa would come down from work and instead of telling Wanda off he would ask why this teacher thought his children, his brilliant twins, were stupid.

Wanda stares at the chalkboard and imagines her Papa’s hand curling proudly around her shoulder until the teacher gives a pitying sigh and moves on.

Across the room, Pietro giggles on a carpet, building some bright plastic thing with another boy.

\--

The food is so strange. The cafeteria is big, with tall windows like no one knows what sightlines are. The room is loud, always. Wanda hates it. She sits in a corner and methodically eats every speck of gross food on her tray, not looking around. She pretends to be somewhere else.

The only thing she pretends is somewhere else with her is Pietro, who sits by her elbow every day, even when his new friends whine at him to sit with them. They say, _“She can come, too!”_ But Pietro gives them his too-sweet chocolate milk and takes their plain milk and they are satisfied. He never leaves her. She never thinks he will.

In her daydreams, this strange school is in Sokovia. And they have to go to it for some reason, but at the end of the day they will go home, careful to watch their surroundings in between the weird yellow bus and the front stoop of their building, where Mama waits. And they will tell her all about the loud Americans and the awful school lunch and the calamity that is recess and she will hug them. And she won’t care that Wanda doesn’t have any friends, and she won’t care that Pietro has yet to do better than a D on any test or homework, and she won’t care that Wanda sometimes forgets half of the school day. She will just hug them and kiss their heads and love them.

\--

Pietro gets into a fight at recess.

Someone was making fun of Wanda. She doesn’t know what they said. She tends to turn her ears off when they’re not being instructed. But she heard her name, and then a thump and the sound of someone crying, and then there was a scuffle. By the time she looks, Pietro is on the ground, curled protectively around his arm, and two other boys are on the ground as well. One has blood on his face and the other is curled up in a fetal position.

They are all taken to the office. Wanda trails behind, unnoticed, while the other recess teachers try to sort out the stupid American children, who do not know how to be orderly and quiet after violence. When they reach the office, one of the teachers notices Wanda and snaps something and points down the hall before closing the door behind her.

Wanda didn’t catch the rapid English, but she goes down the hall. She hasn’t been in this wing before. She can’t read the letters carved out of big, purple paper on the walls, and she doesn’t try. She looks into the rooms as she passes. A computer room. A room with lots of big balls and a mat on the floor. An office.

A piano.

The lights are off, but grey light comes in through the windows and it makes the room feel safe. No one is there. Wanda creeps in and closes the door most of the way behind her.

She has to hop up onto the seat. This piano is bigger than the one they had at home, an old, creaky brown one that had to be re-tuned almost every season. The keys are some strange plastic, maybe, not wood like the ones she knows. But the notes are the same.

She closes her eyes and goes somewhere else, somewhere better.

Eventually, she feels Pietro touch her and comes back down, back to America and room with the principal and three teachers and Clint who are all staring at her, and her brother, who has tear tracks on his face but is smiling, wide and toothy.

“I told them not to touch you,” he chatters. “They think my arm is broken so we have to go to the hospital, except it’s far away so you have to come too because we won’t be back before school is over but no one could find you but then I heard you playing that song Babka taught you. They’re all really impressed!”

Pietro looks happier than he has in a long time. Even when he put his outside face back on so they could come to school, Wanda has been able to see that he’s been playing along, just like she has been. Even with his arm in a crisp white sling and dirt on his cheek, he looks. Awake. 

They go out to the car eventually. Wanda is quiet inside, for once. For once she doesn’t have to press down a hurricane inside, because the piano calmed it down, the way Papa’s hands on her face could calm down her rages. She is quiet all the way to the hospital, but that’s also because Pietro is still talking, lightning-fast in a mix of English and Sokovian.

“...Ms. O’Neil thinks I should play _baseball_ when they start _in the spring, because she says I have too much energy. She says I disrupt in class._ Hunter and Colby play _baseball_ , so I want to! And _Mr. Thomas think you are so good at piano! He say they have private lessons with teachers so if you want you can have quiet time with teacher when—while—_ instead of lunch in the cafeteria, you can eat with the teacher and then practice. They noticed _that you quiet and they want you not feel scared. I say you are not scared, just quiet, but they_ worried anyway, I heard they wanted you to go to the _school counselor_ instead of lunch but now they say you can play piano instead. _And Clint says he can pay for private lessons, so is no problem.”_

Clint gives Pietro an affectionate smile over his shoulder. _“You like piano?”_ he asks Wanda.

She thinks. _“More than cafeteria.”_

Clint laughs.

Pietro’s arm is broken, but he still smiles for the rest of the afternoon. Clint ruffles his hair and praises him for defending his sister. It makes Wanda ache, because that is what Papa would do whenever Pietro got in a fight, while Mama would be shouting over him from the kitchen not to give Pietro bad ideas. And then dinner, Mama would tell Pietro he couldn’t have any dessert, and then she would start washing the dishes early so that her back would be turned when Oli snuck Pietro dessert anyway.

At dinner, Clint gives them both ice cream. There is no ritual, but the ice cream is butter pecan, which they both like and Clint doesn’t. It’s not the same. But it is nice.

In bed that night, they are careful with Pietro’s arm. It aches, he says, despite the pills they gave him at the hospital and that Clint carefully gave him with dinner. But he is still smiling.

Wanda nudges him and he answers.

 _“I heard Oli,”_ he says, eyes sliding shut, still with that dreamy smile on his face. _“He told me I did good in the fight. He said he was proud of me.”_

Wanda starts crying into the pillow. They tug each other closer.

Pietro falls asleep easy, and doesn’t dream. When Wanda surfaces from the dream world in the morning she brings with her the feeling of soft hands on her face.

It’s not enough. It may never be enough. But for now, with her brother tucked up against her side, it’s enough to get by with.


End file.
